


crown jewels

by andnowforyaya



Category: B.A.P, K-pop
Genre: Alternate Universe - Thieves, Assassins & Hitmen, Gen, Guns, Heist, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Violence, Voyeurism, i watched it i watched i did, who watched the Excuse Me PV
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-09
Updated: 2014-08-15
Packaged: 2018-02-12 09:51:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2105214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andnowforyaya/pseuds/andnowforyaya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the job, Junhong expects peace, quiet, and casual luxury. He gets none of those things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Don’t book your flight through the internet,” Himchan says. “Use one of the phones we got you. Throw it away after. This is _really_ important, Junhong. You can’t be followed, when we’re done with the job.”

Junhong rolls his eyes at the older thief and says, “Duh.”

Junhong might be young, but he’s not stupid. It’s not his first rodeo show. He tells them this, a petulant downturn of his lips, and Himchan sighs. Himchan’s always sighing. Junhong doesn’t even know what his purpose on the team is, other than to provide the safehouse and hold Yongguk’s hand through the planning process.

“But it’s your biggest show,” Daehyun says helpfully with a little tilt to his mouth. The fucker always looks like he’s hiding the last piece of cake in someone else’s bag.

Junhong hadn’t been sure why they needed a forger (“ _Artist_ ,” Daehyun always retorts), when Yongguk recruited him, since he hadn’t said anything about paintings, but the plan began to snowball even before Junhong got to Himchan’s little hideaway by the coast to meet the other members of the team.

Their buyer wanted more -- he wanted the target’s whole _collection_.

“It’s personal,” Yongguk grunted, when Junhong asked for an explanation. More meant more money, but it also meant more risk.

“The personal jobs are always more fun,” their security and tech guy said. He’d introduced himself as Youngjae. Junhong had glared at him.

“I’m not an idiot,” Junhong says to them all, gathered in Himchan’s living room two days before the drop. “I know how to disappear. I mean -- C’mon Yongguk, you know--”

“Fine,” Youngjae interrupts. He’s sitting in front of his laptop on a pristine white couch, typing hastily on the keys. Daehyun leans over his shoulder over the back of the couch, smirking. “Then how come I know you’re skipping town through Incheon to Narita, laying-over for a day before jumping onto a flight to Manila? What’s this hotel you’re staying at? The--”

“What the fuck, Youngjae,” Junhong snaps.

Daehyun laughs. Junhong takes the first thing his hands can reach -- a book on cultivating coffee beans from the low table -- and tries to chuck it at him, but Jongup stops him with a hand on his wrist. Still, that Daehyun flinched satisfies him.

“No fighting,” Jongup reminds him, “Until after.”

“We’re just trying to make sure you get out of this alive, Junhong,” Youngjae says from the couch, gentler.

“Don’t treat me like a kid,” Junhong says. He’s been saying this a lot, lately.

“Then stop acting like one,” Daehyun says, which is bullshit, coming from him.

“Don’t you have a priceless piece of art to copy?”

Daehyun stiffens, while Himchan drops his forehead to his hands, rubbing at his temples. “Two days,” Junhong hears him mutter. “Two more days.”

“Don’t you have a whole itinerary you have to re-book?” Daehyun snaps back at him. He’s jittery, Junhong can tell. Youngjae looks up from the couch and holds his hand up to him. Daehyun reacts almost blindly, dropping down to kiss the palm he is offered.

They’re weird, Junhong thinks. They’re so weird. Some weird form of intense symbiosis, the kind where Junhong wants to know how far back they go but isn’t sure he’d like the details of what he’d find. Junhong can’t imagine needing anyone like that.

“Go check on your paintings,” Youngjae murmurs.

Daehyun stands there for a moment, eyeing Junhong, eyeing Youngjae. Finally, he turns on his heel and strides away from the living room, up the stairs. On the second floor, a door slams.

“What’s his problem?” Junhong asks, grumpy now.

Youngjae rolls his shoulders, cracks his neck. He starts to type again. Sometimes Junhong wonders if he’s doing actual work or just fucking around on the internet.

“Prison,” Youngjae says.

.

After, Junhong’s got an offshore account set up he can dip into, funnel his funds that way, and he spends a couple of days in Japan before ducking off to southeast Asia via Hong Kong. He’s got more money than he knows what to do with, and less-than-extravagant tastes.

He’s pretty sure Jongup’s gone home, though he never did share exactly where home is -- he’s got a family still, parents and everything, and plays at the good son when he can. Himchan and Yongguk fucked off to one of Himchan’s many hideaways, he bets. Probably somewhere in Europe. He gives less than two shits about where Daehyun and Youngjae ended up, though he’d bet his entire earnings that they’re together still.

Actually, he occasionally thinks on them. Wonders about them. If someone pulled them apart would they find a way to fit back together or just fizzle away into nothing? They interest him in a way he doesn’t like to admit.

He ends up in Thailand, a good hour hour away from Bangkok in a small bungalow he rents in cash through a nice landlady. He buys a bike to get to and from the nearest market, and then it’s only a long stretch of dirt road to the beach, if he gets the itch to feel the sand between his toes. It’s nice. Peaceful. In a couple of weeks, he’ll probably want to move on, but for now he sips on the juice of fresh tropical fruit and eats the dinners the landlady cooks for him and fucks the boys and girls who want to come back to his little, humble bungalow.

Two weeks out from when he plans to leave, he’s coming back on his bike and he thinks one of the chains is a little out of order, but it’s not a big deal. It just takes a little longer for him to get home since he has to be careful about it. The ride reminds him of childhood, a little boy from the countryside with a basket of produce on a bike, or a wagon. Hot, humid summers and sticky skin.

He’d hated his childhood, the feel of it. Almost as much as his parents hated each other.

He’d pretty much raised himself, and then skipped town the first moment he was able, and no one seemed to miss him.

Well, he’s doing alright for himself now, isn’t he?

Junhong pedals a little faster, eager to get back to the bungalows to see what the landlady is cooking tonight. There’s two other bungalows on the property, and though he’s not really friends with the other tenants, he’s certainly friendly. They eat together in one of the common areas, almost like a family.

Gravel crunches underneath the wheels of the bike as Junhong approaches. He dismounts and walks the rest of the way, along a short path past the first bungalow on his left and another on his right.

They are luxurious spaces. Little pieces of paradise hidden behind bamboo thickets or the giant leaves of palm trees. Each bungalow has a mix of closed and open-air rooms, and they are spaced far enough from each other that Junhong can’t hear the other tenants unless an uproarious laugh pierces through the air.

His bungalow is at the end of the path. He chains and locks his bike up against one of the poles of the front porch, and knows something is wrong before he walks up the steps to the front door.

First, the front door is slightly ajar.

Second, as he takes slow, evenly spaced steps through the threshold, slipping the knife out from underneath his welcome mat and holding it in one hand, there’s someone talking in his bedroom.

A couple of someones.

He walks a little farther, and gasps.

The floorboards creak behind him. Before he can turn around, the barrel of a gun is pressed against his temple, and he’s being shoved to his knees.

“Got you,” a familiar voice says.

“I don’t have anything,” Junhong says automatically, putting on his best imitation of terrified. “I don’t have anything, please don’t hurt me.” He holds his hands up. The knife is wrenched out of them.

“What were you going to do with this, huh?” the man behind him says. He definitely sounds familiar. Junhong sneaks a glance up and behind, and Daehyun grins at him.

“What the _fuck_ , man,” Junhong nearly shouts, scrambling up, heart ratcheting in his chest. He shoves himself away from him, and faces him. He’s angry, but also relieved. It’s just Daehyun.

“What?” Daehyun says, frowning. “It’s not even loaded.”

Daehyun’s wearing a huge t-shirt that’s soaked halfway through and nearly translucent against his skin, and his hair is wet and dark and messy. He tucks the gun behind him, into the waistband of his jean shorts. He’s dripping water onto the hardwood floors.

“Did you use my bathroom?” Junhong accuses him. “Is that _my shirt_?”

Daehyun looks down at what he’s wearing like he’s seeing it for the first time. “Oh,” he says. “Youngjae and I didn’t exactly pack with comfort in mind.”

“ _Is Youngjae here too?_ ” Junhong barely manages to keep from screeching. He thinks of his neighbors, and tries to calm down. Daehyun gives him this look, this condescending, long-suffering look, and Junhong hates it.

“Of course,” he says.

Which is when Youngjae emerges from the bedroom, and the voices stop from behind him. The television.

“What the fuck,” Junhong says again, glancing between the two of them. Youngjae, at least, looks sheepish. He’s got two of his fingers taped up tight against each other, and a nasty-looking bruise on his cheekbone.

On closer inspection, Daehyun’s lip is split and there’s dark red dried blood at the healing cut, and when he walks toward Youngjae, he favors his left side.

“We need a place to lie low,” Youngjae says, begs. Daehyun stands by him, standing too straight, overcompensating.

Junhong’s gut reaction is to say no. Loudly. “That wasn’t part of the agreement,” he argues. “We do our part. We get out. We don’t see each other. That was the plan.”

“Plans change,” Youngjae says, putting a hand on Daehyun’s shoulder when it looks like he’s about to lunge. “Please, Junhong. Just for a couple of nights. We just need to regroup. Figure out where we’re going.”

Daehyun’s vibrating beside him. Youngjae keeps his hand on his shoulder, and when it’s clear that he’s not going to lift it, Daehyun growls and retreats into the bedroom. Junhong’s bedroom.

Youngjae looks worn. Junhong wonders what it is like, on the run with Daehyun, holding him back when necessary, pushing him forward when the situation is dire. Sounds exhausting.

“One night,” Junhong bites out. “I want you both gone in the morning.”

Youngjae exhales and it looks like he’s just shifted a huge weight from his shoulders. “Thank you,” he says. “Yeah, we’ll be gone by morning. Out of your hair. Thank you.”

“And get out of my bedroom,” Junhong snaps. “You guys can use the couch.”

.

 


	2. Chapter 2

The really awesome thing is, Junhong can hear them fucking on the couch. And by ‘awesome’ Junhong means ‘really goddamn annoying.’

The walls are thin, here, if they are to be called walls at all.

Someone is panting, gasping high and quick in time with the rocking on the couch, the creak in the floorboards. They didn’t pack with comfort in mind, Junhong remembers Daehyun saying, and yet they were of the mind to bring along lube.

Junhong groans. He can’t _not_ think about them going at it just outside his room. Can’t not see the way they mold against each other even when they’re just sitting around in the kitchen, the slouch of Daehyun’s shoulders and the broad expanse of Youngjae’s chest. Youngjae’s pale creamy skin, the little mole above his collarbone, the way sometimes Daehyun would kiss him there, unsolicited.

No one else thought they were strange, or if they did, they hid it rather well. They were just -- always together. He suspects that Yongguk had actually planned around them, purposefully fit them together in his plotting so there wouldn’t be a fuss from either of them. When they’d gotten out, left the property and into their get-away cars, high on the trick and eyes gleaming under the cover of night, Junhong had been looking at them, but they’d been looking at each other.

“Fuck, _Youngjae_ ,” Daehyun exhales, strained and needy, and it’s just two words but it slams the image into Junhong’s head: Daehyun with his cheek pressed into the cushions of the couch and his ass in the air, and Youngjae’s dick sliding in and out of him, hands on his hips leaving finger-shaped bruises.

“Shh,” Youngjae orders. “Shh, it’s good. It’s good, _fuck_.”

Junhong wants to laugh, but then Daehyun whines, and it sounds muffled. Maybe Youngjae reached up and covered his mouth with his hand.

The laugh dies in his throat and he groans, instead, feeling himself stir underneath his sheets. This is not how he wanted to spend his night, but Youngjae is outside of his room fucking Daehyun silly on the couch, and Junhong hasn’t gotten off in a couple of long days, and his dick is interested.

He reaches under the covers and pulls down the elastic of his briefs and wraps his fingers around himself, feeling his dick twitch at the warmth and pressure, and he grits his teeth.

It’s not like they have to know. It’s not like they’re going to wake up the next morning and just _know_ that Junhong jerked off to the sounds of them having sex. Or that he paid attention to the way the couch was rocking and timed the flick of his wrist to it, that he thought about what it would be like to fuck Daehyun, or Youngjae, or be fucked by them in turn. Or that he listened for Daehyun’s little pleas, that he _really_ liked when Daehyun was blubbering into the cushions, “Fuck, yeah, yeah, yeah, ah - ah - _ah_!”

Or that he came with a shudder, dick pulsing in his hand, and cleaned himself up with the tissues on his nightstand and rolled over to try to get some sleep.

They’re not going to know. Not unless Junhong tells them, which he has no intention to.

.

Junhong wakes to the sound of glass shattering, the thump of bodies, Youngjae shouting something unintelligible. It all gets mixed up in his head and he’s not even really awake yet -- even though his heart is racing as more glass breaks -- when he reaches underneath his nightstand where he’d taped a handgun.

He wrenches the adhesive off and the gun slots into his palm, the metal cool and heavy, rolls off his bed and stays down, crawling his way to the door. He could just run. He could kick out the screen in his window and jump and make a beeline for the beach. Steal a boat, maybe. He’s never sailed around the world, before, and that’s on his list.

But he wants to _see_ what’s happening out there. The wall shakes and Junhong jumps, thinking that something must have been thrown against it. And then Youngjae screams, just as a gunshot rings through the air.

Silence.

Junhong throws his door open, staying out of sight behind the frame, and leads with his gun to peak around the wall. When his weapon isn’t shot or kicked right out his hands, he takes a chance and looks, cursing when his brain finally figures out what his eyes are seeing.

It’s Youngjae kneeling in the center of the living room with shaking hands and the blood drained out of his face, and two bodies on the floor around him. Big, hulking bodies. They don’t move.

It’s Daehyun with blood dripping down his face, standing over one of the bodies and using his foot to turn it over onto its back, dropping down to rifle through the dead man’s pockets. He’s saying something. “Keys, mother fucker had to have keys. Probably drives a fucking nice car, too.”

Youngjae hisses, “Goddamnit. _Goddamnit_!” and Daehyun sweeps up triumphantly, keys jingling in his hand, and turns to him.

“BMW,” he says. “Knew it would be nice.”

Junhong stands. Youngjae’s eyes flicker to him at the movement, and Daehyun rounds on him so quickly Junhong flinches, holds up his hands and relaxes his grip on his gun so that it hooks onto his finger, swinging, relatively harmless. “It’s just me,” he says.

“Jesus Christ,” Daehyun grumbles, stowing away his gun. “Put on some pants, Junhong.”

Junhong looks down at his long bare legs. He’d slipped out of bed in his briefs and nothing else, but he can’t quite manage to feel embarrassed with two men bleeding on his bungalow’s living room floor. Nonetheless, he goes back into his bedroom and finds some pants to slip into, and a shirt, before stepping out into the living room.

The cut above Daehyun’s eyebrow is still dripping, and Daehyun wipes at it irritably with his fingers, before Youngjae seems to sigh. He rolls his shoulders back and pushes himself up to his feet, going over to one of the bags by the couch, digging through it and re-emerging with medical tape. He sits Daehyun down on the couch. “Stop that. You’re going to make it worse.”

“It stings,” Daehyun whines, looking up at Youngjae.

“You know what stings,” Junhong says. “Waking up to gunfire and finding two dead men on your floor. What the fuck, guys? What are we going to do?”

“We’re going to leave,” Youngjae says, applying the tape to the cut. He rubs his thumb over it, and Daehyun closes his eyes. Weird symbiosis, Junhong remembers.

“Yeah,” Junhong says. “That’s really fuckin’ great for _you_. What about _me_? They’re going to find me and I’m going to go to prison. I can’t go to a Thai prison, guys. I can’t go to _any_ prison. Do you know what they’ll do to me in there?”

“I’ve got an idea,” Youngjae murmurs. Daehyun shivers. “You’re coming with us, of course.”

Junhong feels a laugh bubble out of him before he can stop it. He heart is still pounding in his chest. He wants Junhong to join them? On their little gallivanting journey away from people who want to kill them? No, Junhong will be going as far as he can in the other direction, thanks.

“Like hell I am,” he snaps.

He starts walking into the living room, closer to them, but can’t make it past the first body. It hurts his eyes. He derails into the kitchen to get himself a glass of water, instead.

“You are,” Youngjae says, just as Daehyun adds, “You have to. They know you helped us. They’ll know you. They’ll find you to find us. Better to stick together.”

Junhong fumes in the kitchen. Now, his hands are shaking and not Youngjae’s. The water never reaches his lips. “I didn’t want you to stay,” he says. “I didn’t ask for this.”

Youngjae mumbles something soft, and then Junhong hears the sound of a kiss. Youngjae says, “We know. We’re really sorry about this Junhong. But you have to come with us -- at least to the airport. You can’t stay here.”

They’re right.

In fact, there’s probably already another group of men on their way to hunt them down. They have to go.

Junhong puts the water in the sink. He’s not going to drink it, anyway. “Fine,” he says. “But we’re getting on different flights and going opposite directions.”

He doesn’t wait for their answer. He strides back into his room and starts to pack.

.

 

**Author's Note:**

> [writing](http://andnowforyaya.tumblr.com/) | [twitter](https://twitter.com/andnowforyaya)
> 
>  
> 
> i have a bad history with chaptered fics and also i might be a bit tipsy but we'll see how this goes, okay?


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